


In Which Criminals Take a Holiday and Lestrade Tries to Get Laid

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, Lestrade Is Irresistible, M/M, Romance, Seduction, Sensuality, Sherlock Is a Virgin, The Coat - Freeform, The Scarf, The Shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Lestrade seduces Sherlock. It takes awhile.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Written for et_cetera55 for a prompt in the 2010 221B Slashfest on LJ, asking for Sherlock and Lestrade's first time, with special attention to the coat and scarf.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Criminals Take a Holiday and Lestrade Tries to Get Laid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [et_cetera55](https://archiveofourown.org/users/et_cetera55/gifts).



> _First fanfic, first slash I ever wrote (October 2010) . I've tried to remove or revise the most clumsy bits, and to make it work with S2._   
>  _Betaed with patience and kindness by fengirl88 and blue_eyed_1987. Thank you._

Women had always loved Lestrade. Lestrade had mostly loved men. It was as simple and complicated as that. In school girls were drawn to him because he was both a handsome athlete and a "real gentleman." In other words, he usually listened when they talked, took them to dances and parties, and rarely tried to take advantage beyond a kiss and nuzzle, even when they ached--and sometimes begged--for his touch. What the girls didn't know was that Lestrade himself was aching for tall, pale, brainy boys, but was never bold enough to approach them and declare his desire.

Then on a cold, foggy afternoon, as they walked home from a kick-about, one of the tall, shaggy-hair boys he had spent weeks dreaming about dragged Greg into a dim alley behind the bakery. Their first kiss was awkward, sloppy-wet, and electrifying--the most thrilling thing that had happened to Greg Lestrade in his sixteen years on the Earth. They spent the spring and summer in mad teenage love: exploring each other, writing bad poetry (Andy) and making mixtapes (Greg), drinking, fighting over imagined betrayals, holding onto each other secretly, desperately.

Thirty years, two women and about a dozen men later, Lestrade still considered his six months with Andy the best of his life. And the day Andy left for university--in fucking Canada of all places--was still among the worst. Worse, he had to admit, than the day his wife had given up trying to turn their mutual admiration and affection into a real marriage and walked out on him. Lestrade occasionally still wore his wedding ring as a way to push off unwanted attention. And at this point almost all attention was unwanted, except that of the bloody genius, Sherlock Holmes.

Walking the streets to clean the gruesome details of a case from his mind, Lestrade would sometimes pass a bakery, lights on and staff hard at work in the wee hours. The smell of cloves and cinnamon and fresh bread mixed with damp pre-dawn air would hit his senses full on and he would feel a little drunk with memories of those first kisses. Only now--God help him--it wasn't Andy's face he imagined.

Sherlock was the only person Lestrade dreamed about now. Tragically, he couldn't even work up a good wanking fantasy about Clive Owen anymore. He sometimes hated himself for it, especially because he knew Donovan suspected the lust that prompted some of those late-night texts to Sherlock from crime scenes.

But lust was not what prompted his loyalty during that ugly business when the papers called Sherlock a fraud and he'd faked his death. Jesus, that had been the worst year of all their lives. But Lestrade had known the shamed detective was real and true, as well as he knew his own name.  He still hadn't completely forgiven Donovan and Anderson for running to the bosses and making all those stupid allegations. But they'd put it behind them, in public at least, and things were slowly getting back to normal.

But now that Sherlock and John were back at work with the Met and Lestrade was back at his desk, the D.I.'s infatuation was also more real and true than ever before--though he knew damn well the idiot had no interest. To hear Mycroft and John tell it (Forever gossiping like schoolgirls when they'd had a few too many.), Sherlock just didn't have the formula for lust in his body chemistry. Probably hadn't had a wet dream since he was twelve. And any need he had for simple companionship got met in spades by that epic bromance with John.

So there it was. Nothing to be done. Lestrade smiled and met the doctor for drinks and listened to his complaints about Sherlock or how hard it was to deal with all the cases and his blog--and still have time for a personal life. Lestrade rolled his eyes. Poor, poor John. It was another thrilling cops--and-robbers day chasing around London with Sherlock and then out for dinner and a shag with lovely Molly Hooper. True--Molly probably did sometimes fantasize she was shagging Sherlock--but then John probably did too.

 _Fuck._ Yes, Lestrade was jealous. So what? Not a damn thing he could do about it. Lestrade wished John would just get on with it and move in with Molly. Marry the girl, already. The D.I. couldn't stop worrying about what could happen in the bedrooms at 221B, if John and Molly ever broke up.

How could John not find his flatmate arousing? Any man would have to be dead not to get hard looking at Sherlock, draped over the sofa in that blue silk dressing gown. Just thinking about how it would feel to slip his hands between the cool silk of that robe and the warm, pliant flesh of Sherlock's torso sometimes literally took Lestrade's breath away. Took away his sight and hearing sometimes too, when he was unable to think of anything but how the weight of that long, lithe body would feel pressing down on him. How well that white arse would fit in his hands.

Well, Lestrade decided, he would not allow Dr. John Watson ("Look at me, I've got a cuddly jumper for every day of the week."), with his daily fucking intimate proximity to Sherlock, to get any ideas or give Sherlock any ideas. Lestrade was ready to stop dreaming and make something happen. Ready to go after the boy he wanted this time.

 

********

Lestrade had done well as a copper and then as a detective because he was methodical and willing to lay aside his own ego to close a case. His team respected him for that and appreciated that he always gave them credit when he talked to the press, never seizing the glory for himself. Lots of colleagues and former underlings--not just in London, but all over the country--owed him favors, so he decided to call in a few as he prepared his plan for the Great Seduction.

There was a strange calm blanketing London that winter, with very little violent crime to distract the DI's attention. He had time to gather an impressive stack of cold cases. He had gained access to cases not just from London, but one from Cardiff and two from Bristol to mix it up a bit. All of them contained at least one oddity that he knew would appeal to Sherlock and convince him that only his brilliance could unravel the complexities. He knew his consulting detective pretty well by now, and wasn't above manipulating his planet-size ego to get things rolling.

Lestrade felt confident that he could pull this seduction off as long as he was right in his inkling that Sherlock--even if he refused to acknowledge that he had such feelings--was attracted to Lestrade too. It had only happened three or four times in all those years, but Lestrade knew he'd seen a _look_ , knew he'd felt Sherlock _wanting_ . . . something. Might as well find out for sure. _The game is on_ , Sherlock, he thought, as he picked up his phone one December morning. _And I'm winning this one_.

 

_Cold case. Two corpses on a train. Almost nothing to go on.  
Will you come?  
GL_

_  
_

******

  
The train murders, which had occurred in 1981, ended up taking about three hours for Sherlock to solve from the information in two small archival boxes. Because he knew Sherlock delighted in irritating Donovan and Anderson (the man held a grudge a lot longer than Lestrade did), Lestrade assigned them to help the detective assemble leads on a corkboard and table in one of the empty offices. They spent almost an hour arguing with him about how he was handling the evidence, so really, the elapsed time for solving the case was more like four hours. Lestrade didn't interfere. He was pretty amused by the insults that got thrown back and forth during the skirmish, which he could hear from down the hall.

When Sherlock presented his findings, Lestrade thanked him, and asked if he wouldn't mind putting his efforts toward a few other such cases--just until a good serial killer or kidnapper turned up. Sherlock looked put upon and pompous as usual, but agreed.

As Sherlock reached for the door handle, so did Lestrade. With his fingers curled around Sherlock's Lestrade held his gaze for a moment more.

"Oh, Sorry. After you, Sherlock."

Sherlock appeared to ignore the gaffe, and walked out into the hallway where Lestrade had placed the detective's coat and scarf on a credenza. He watched each delicious movement as Sherlock put on that obscene overcoat. Obscene because it was so shamefully expensive and because the coat screamed "FUCK ME RIGHT NOW" every time Lestrade saw it. The DI slipped to his friend'sside and picked up the cozy, blue-gray cashmere scarf, tossing it around Sherlock's neck in the most casual way he could muster, given the screaming and all. Lestrade then slowly drew his fingers down the wide lapels of Sherlock's coat before nudging him along down the hallway.

"Cheerio, then. I'll let you know when I find a new old case. Say hello to John and Molly for me."

Sherlock glanced back briefly as he walked toward the lift, a slightly annoyed look on his face, and Lestrade quickly disappeared into his office.

 

******

 

Five days later, the criminal element still on holiday, Lestrade knew Sherlock would be bored and ready for a distraction.

 

_Head scratcher. Cardiff. 1986.  
Three dead. Unknown poison.  
I'll be here late. Feeling desperate.  
GL_

Lestrade kept silently working away at his desk while Sherlock read the files--this time in six boxes. They engaged in a bit of a talk-through of possible suspects, and went over the timeline together. Drank some tea. Lestrade disagreed with Sherlock just for the sake of disagreement several times. They both felt positively gleeful when Sherlock finally figured out that the poison had been ground up and hidden in several bottles of vitamin capsules by one of the victim's former lovers who worked in a health food store. Two of the bodies were just collateral damage--they had picked the wrong brand of vitamins on the wrong day, poor sods.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Brilliant, as usual. Let's get out of here, and call it a night, shall we?"

This time Lestrade had hung Sherlock's coat--slightly damp and smelling delightfully Sherlocky--on a hook behind his door. Lestrade lifted it gently off the hook and held it out for Sherlock to slip into, smoothing it with his fingers at the shoulders. Before Sherlock could open his mouth with a mocking comment about chivalry, Lestrade grabbed the scarf as well and threw it around the genius's neck, this time lingering a little longer--one hand tracing a path down the wool on his chest.

"What _are_ you doing, Lestrade?"

"What?"

"Why are you _fondling_ my scarf?"

"Am I? That doesn't seem like something I would do."

"Don't be coy. You know what you're doing."

"It's a nice scarf, that's all. Might get one myself. Off you go, now. Good luck getting a cab."

Lestrade shut the door to his office, leaving Sherlock striding off grumbling to himself.

  
*******

 

A week passed before Lestrade doled out a new mystery to Sherlock--this one quite gruesome, with one of his favorite details--a severed limb. One of the dead man's arms was missing.

This one had a pretty simple answer, one that Lestrade himself had figured out over lunch as he was reviewing the file. But he said nothing when he handed over the boxes to Sherlock, knowing he'd enjoy berating the DI at some point for his ignorance. Over the years working together, Lestrade had learned how to keep Sherlock happy when things were slow, even if it sometimes meant playing the fool.

In less than an hour, the case was solved, and Sherlock rose to leave, complaining that this one--despite the missing arm (which he was sure would be found under the dead man's granny's lilac bushes) --had hardly been worth the cab fare.

Sherlock quickly grabbed his scarf‚ this time from the chair in the corner of the office--not allowing Lestrade to come near it, and threw it around his neck, with a smirk and grunt. Lestrade handed Sherlock his coat with a smile, not offering to help him put it on this time.

Lestrade knew Sherlock was imagining he'd bested the DI in some sort of coat-and-scarf-domination game. But just before Lestrade opened his office door to walk to the lift, he stopped. Lestrade pivoted toward Sherlock and reached up, hands at Sherlock's neck, to arrange the scarf in its usual stylish knot.

"Don't you usually wear it doubled over and tied, like this?"

Sherlock started to slap his hands away, but paused--perhaps stunned‚--as Lestrade's fingers unmistakably _caressed_ the back of his neck before finishing the knot. Lestrade knew he was having the desired effect when he saw Sherlock's eyes darken slightly, and then narrow into a squint. Sherlock was trying to focus his intellect on this event, but he was also breathing more heavily and his face was a touch pinker than normal. Lestrade hoped he also might be experiencing, if not a full erection, then a little twitch and tickle.

Sherlock quickly resumed slapping Lestrade's hands away and his usual disparaging tone.

"Really, Lestrade, what is the point of all this touching lately? You must get hold of yourself. Do you have some sort of wool fetish? Keep your paws off my clothes and my person."

"What's that?" Lestrade tried to sound absent-minded. "Don't know what you're referring to. I've got a meeting to get to, so off you go."

The DI then slapped Sherlock hard on the shoulder, and shoved him out the door. "Stay warm," he said with a wink.

Lestrade grinned as he walked back to his desk. _Caressing, slapping, a blush_. The plan seemed to be coming along just right.

************

  
The next time they met, Lestrade had to leave his office for a few minutes to keep from laughing out loud. Sherlock decided to defend his coat and scarf by holding them in his lap the entire time he was going through nine boxes of evidence for a complex robbery case. Lestrade found the sight hilarious.

After five hours, during which Lestrade asked Anderson to bring them lunch--much to his irritation¬and Sherlock's amusement--Sherlock walked out without allowing Lestrade anywhere near his clothes or person. But he managed to forget about his gloves, which he had placed on the corner of Lestrade's desk.

As Sherlock passed in front of Anderson's office, Lestrade caught up with him, waving the gloves.

"Forgot these, Sherlock. May I help you put them on?"

"Don't be _ridiculous_! Give them to me." Sherlock extended his right hand, palm up, with an impatient grimace.

"Suit yourself." Lestrade took Sherlock's open hand in his own and drew the buttery black leather slowly over his palm. Lestrade's thumb gently pressed at Sherlock's wrist, a trick Lestrade had learned from his last brief affair before he married. The bloke had been a Swedish barman, so tall, so pale--who talked a lot about chakras and pulse points and such. A lot of rubbish, mostly, he thought, but this¬-he did remember liking this. Lestrade felt an urge to bend down and lick Sherlock's slim wrist just then, but managed to resist when he noticed Anderson staring from inside his office, and exchanging amused glances with Donovan across the hall. Lestrade knew they'd spend the entire night discussing his relationship with Freak--probably before a quick fuck in a carpark.

Sherlock's eyes darkened again, now just slits, focused on Lestrade's face, but he said nothing. He grabbed the gloves, wrenching his hand away from Lestrade, and walked away.

 

*******

 

Three days later, Lestrade told Sherlock he would drop off cases at 221B, as he was having new carpet put in his office and it was too messy to work there. On Thursday after work, Lestrade put on the sky-blue shirt and grey jacket he knew women tended to like--at least Mrs. Hudson and a few women in the office had complimented him on it. He thought perhaps Sherlock, keen observer, would notice something that looked particularly good with his hair or eyes. It was worth a try.

As he carefully shaved and brushed his teeth and hair, he told himself he had to be a study in _restraint_ tonight. It wouldn't be easy, as he was already half hard thinking about it. _Don't push it, if it doesn't feel right. Slow and steady._

He was as sure as he could be that Sherlock had no real experience with either romance or sex¬unless there was some fumbling about as an adolescent--and even that seemed unlikely, given all Sherlock's oddities and tendency to either humiliate or ignore anyone who tried to befriend him.

He also knew Sherlock would rather die than admit ignorance or ineptitude at anything, so this was going to be a delicate dance. But after what he considered a pretty good few weeks of flirting and teasing his friend‚ he thought that he was currently leading this tango.

He felt nervous butterflies in his stomach and a tightening in his throat as he banged on the door of the flat. He had texted Sherlock earlier, promising a couple of good cold cases and hot curries around 8 o'clock. Lestrade had given John and Molly two tickets to a fancy black-tie charity event he'd been invited to, so he knew they'd be out late.

Sherlock called Lestrade in, unwilling to get up off the sofa to greet him. Lestrade threw the takeaway containers onto the kitchen table with a couple of plastic forks, refusing to take Sherlock's dinner to the sofa, as commanded.

"Get it yourself. I'm not your Mum." That was probably as bad-ass as he was going to manage tonight, he thought. At times he wished he could just shove Sherlock to the floor and get on with it. But of course, that would likely lead to internal injuries for Lestrade since Sherlock's martial artistry could most certainly beat Lestrade's 20-year-old police training any day. No, he would have to continue on the path he was on.

Sherlock had to want it too. _That_ was really the point of all this. To make him want it. Make him want Lestrade.

Lestrade ate while standing and talking about the two case files he'd brought with him. These were not grisly--more like intricate puzzles about times, places, and motives, than anything. One involved the theft of an Egyptian sarcophagus en route from Cairo to London in 1994 and the other the smuggling of diamonds by a beautiful Brazilian woman. Very James Bond, thought Lestrade. John would have enjoyed that one too.

Sherlock had decided to eat in the comfy armchair--which he knew was Lestrade's preferred spot--in the middle of the room. _Selfish twit_. Not even eating. Picking at his food, really, one case file open on his lap.

When he had finished eating, Lestrade took off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and slid behind Sherlock, leaning his bare arms on the back of the chair, his face a few inches from the great detective's head. Breathing--with carefully calculated aim--into Sherlock's hair.

" _Oh, good god!_ This must stop, Lestrade. What are you, in heat?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm reading the bloody file, aren't I? Don't get your knickers in such a twist. I only brought one copy, so I need to read yours. Get over yourself, Sherlock."

"Don't tell me you haven't been doing some strange little . . . some kind of . . ." Sherlock seemed to be struggling for the right description. "Some sort of _seduction_   . . ."

Lestrade snorted derisively. "You don't really think I'm trying to seduce you, do you? Come on, Sherlock. You're not Dustin bloody Hoffmann, and I certainly am no Anne Bancroft."

"Who is Anne Bancroft?"

That drew another snort from Lestrade. "Oh yes, I forgot. Pop culture is irrelevant knowledge. Never mind‚ it's just a reference to an old film. Mrs. Robinson ring a bell? Simon and Garfunkel?"

"No. Are they some sort of fashion designers?"

Lestrade said nothing. He stared at Sherlock. _Why_ did he want to sleep with this imbecile?

After a moment of silence, Sherlock volunteered that he did know who Dustin Hoffmann was, and thought he should get credit for that, if Lestrade was administering some sort of test of mind numbingly trivial knowledge. He explained that Mycroft had forced him to sit through _Rain Man_ one evening on a Christmas vacation, arguing that he--Mycroft--was just like the Tom Cruise character and Sherlock was like the disturbed, obsessive savant, who needed to be put into some sort of protective facility.

Lestrade said he would appreciate it very much if Sherlock never again asked him to imagine Mycroft as a Tom Cruise wannabe. For a moment, the two shared a giggle.

But now Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the room, fork in hand, looking fidgety, his eyes darting back and forth, as if working through a problem in his head.

"What is this anxiety about, Sherlock? You had better not be on something, or I swear . . . Let me see your arm."

Lestrade stopped Sherlock in mid-pace, picking up his left arm, pushing his shirtsleeve up roughly--no marks. Not even a nicotine patch. "Good," he said.

He had been 99 percent sure Sherlock was still clean, but it was best to be totally sure. Probably Sherlock was still just irritated at not being able to figure out why Lestrade had been hovering around his precious hair. Sherlock not being able to figure something out was helpful--it put him off balance. Cut through any traces of boredom.

Lestrade now realized how nice it was to be still touching that long arm. Smooth. Strong. Warm.

Sherlock wasn't moving. Wasn't protesting. He was observing Lestrade, studying him. His eyes had stopped darting about.

Lestrade decided he might take things a half step further. He kept up his pretense of examination‚ as if he really were looking for signs of the old addict. Peered at the young man's eyeballs for a moment, pulling down the right lower lid. Then he caressed Sherlock's sweaty palm tenderly.

"You're a little warm, aren't you? Fever, maybe?" He blew cool air on Sherlock's hand.

Lestrade could now feel a wave of heat emanating from Sherlock's body. And he thought he heard the sound of blood rushing towards Sherlock's cock as well.

"I still don't know what the hell you're doing," Sherlock said gruffly. He pulled his arm away quickly, rolled down his sleeve, and peered at Lestrade with half-dilated ice-blue eyes. A few beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip.

"Well then, you've got yourself a new mystery, haven't you? You like mysteries."

"I like problems that can be solved with _data_ , _evidence_ , and _deduction_. I don't think this qualifies. Whatever this situation with you is--whatever idiocy you're up to, it lacks logic."

Lestrade looked into his prey's eyes, considering his plan of attack.

He stepped closer to Sherlock--so near, he could swear he heard Sherlock's heart thumping under his expensive aubergine shirt. That shirt, come to think of it, also screamed "FUCK ME NOW," at Lestrade.

"Do you remember when you were getting clean the first time--sleeping on my sofa and vomiting in my sink for a week?'

"I remember," whispered Sherlock, sounding irritated. This was the first time they'd discussed that wretched episode in the seven years since it had happened.

Lestrade brought his own voice down to a whisper as well. "You kissed me that last night. Told me you wanted me to fuck you to make you forget about all the pain you were in."

Sherlock immediately walked to the far corner of the room to stare out the window. "Did I? I don't remember that. Clearly my mental faculties were compromised." Lestrade smiled, knowing the genius was lying, knowing he remembered.

"It wouldn't have been right back then--you a junkie and me still married to Christina. But now . . .I'm tempted to say you're more in your right mind, but that's still debatable."

Lestrade hoped for a smile from Sherlock, but the plonker wouldn't turn away from the window. In fact he was holding tight to the curtain to anchor himself there.

"Now Christina's off in Edinburgh with her new boyfriend--happily ever after and all that. This is a good time to try something new, maybe. See where it goes . . . It'll probably be a disaster, seeing that you're a deranged sociopath."

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes at Lestrade, then turned back to the window. Lestrade ventured a little more honesty, hoping he wouldn't be taken down by Sherlock's derision.

"I know I'm not your only friend anymore, Sherlock. Now you've got John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. But I am still one of your oldest friends, the one who's seen you at your lowest and your highest, so to speak. And I think I'm probably the only one who's offering to give you a tumble right now, if you're interested." Lestrade walked closer to Sherlock, hoping to make him turn around.

"What on Earth makes you think I have any interest? You know perfectly well I find that whole messy business both exceedingly boring and a waste of energy. You also know I'm married to my work. I thought you were as well."

"Yes, right. We're both married to the work. But that's not saying you can't have some comfort on the side as well, is it? And as a practical matter, I think you should understand what you're saying no to before you close off the possibility. You need more data, Sherlock. Empirical evidence, right? I can provide data that could be helpful. Lestrade took a final step toward Sherlock, touched his shoulder, and lowered his voice so it was barely audible. "For example, I could kiss you now."

After a few seconds of painful silence, Lestrade's phone interrupted with three loud, jarring beeps.

_Urgent. Problem with new case. Come to the Yard.  
Gregson_

_Well done,_ thought Lestrade. _Perfect timing._

He had asked Gregson to send him a fake message around 9 o'clock, ostensibly to help him get out of a long night of going over evidence with Sherlock. In reality, Lestrade hoped the interruption--especially in the atmosphere of sexual tension he was trying to create--might irritate Sherlock so much that he'd demand that Lestrade ignore the message and stay.

Sherlock didn't ask.

"Okay, then. If you don't need me to stay, I'll dash off to work." Lestrade paused, giving Sherlock one more chance.

Nothing. _Jesus, the man hasn't been this quiet in six years._

"Maybe we'll finish this conversation in a few days. You can keep the case files. Just bring them back to the office when you've got the answers."

Lestrade threw his coat on and strode out the door to catch a cab. With difficulty, and feeling a bit defeated, he waited until he got home to his empty flat to release his own (bloody painful now) sexual tension.

**********

Sherlock came roaring into Lestrade's office the next day, throwing files on the desk and complaining about there being absolutely no worthwhile criminals or deviants in London. Threatening to move to Moscow or Tijuana.

Lestrade was busy, having a short logistics meeting with Anderson and Donovan before heading off to a new, not particularly exciting crime scene. He asked the pair to leave for five minutes, so he could chat with Sherlock, and they both scowled openly. Sally reminded him they were all due to the scene in less than fifteen minutes. Once Donovan and Anderson were out of the room, Lestrade asked Sherlock what he needed.

"I need some worthwhile work, Lestrade. I'm sick of clearing these insignificant cold cases, just to amuse you or further your professional ambitions, or whatever it is."

Sherlock's breathing was quick and shallow. He looked flushed and wet and at the end of his rope. It had been raining for hours.

"You're upset, soaked, and overheated. We should talk. Let me help you off with your coat and get you a glass of water."

"No, _thanks_. I've been taking off my own coat since I was four." But as he began to unbutton it, Lestrade detected a slight tremour in one of Sherlock's fingers. _  
_

Lestrade gently moved Sherlock's hands away from the buttons, saying with a teasing grin, "Oh, I know, but let me do it. You know me and that wool fetish." No smile from Sherlock, but he allowed Lestrade to undo the buttons.

Lestrade kept his eyes on the buttons, not wanting to engage in a stare down, a little wary of the man's skittishness. Sherlock might bolt like a frightened deer--or a giraffe--and get into trouble. Lestrade smiled to himself, thinking of Sherlock as a gangly, long-necked giraffe that he was hoping to shag senseless within the week.

"Stop thinking whatever you're thinking, Lestrade. It‚'s _always_ annoying."

Lestrade finished with the unbuttoning and now pushed his hands under the lapels and onto Sherlock's chest, intending, at first, to let the coat slip off onto the floor, and perhaps let his hands linger on the detective's shoulders for a moment. Sherlock began to shrug the coat off, trying‚--half-heartedly--to knock Lestrade's hands off his shoulders. Lestrade had a new idea.

"Sherlock, leave it on a minute. Wait just a minute."

Lestrade slipped his arms snugly inside the overcoat, circling Sherlock's slim waist. He met no resistance. _Interesting._

"You know I've always had a bit of thing for . . . this posh coat, Sherlock."

"First of all, you couldn't possibly afford it. Second, you are behaving like an idiot again."

"Probably, yes." He tightened his grip around Sherlock's waist and looked up at him.

Lestrade held his ground. Still. Staring into Sherlock's eyes for a few seconds, feeling the heat rise in both their bodies, breathing in the air his friend was breathing out. Lestrade felt as if someone were running a hot iron across his back and chest. He focused on Sherlock's upper lip--a sharp little bow--so plump and irresistible.

Lestrade rose up on his toes an inch to let his lips graze Sherlock's in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kiss. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and Lestrade thought he might have heard a sigh.

Donovan and Anderson knocked on the door, then barged in. "Time to go, boss," said Sally sharply. "The forensics team's heading out. Please tell me Freak's not joining us for this one." They both looked unsurprised, but thoroughly disgusted at the sight of Lestrade with his arms around Sherlock.

Lestrade let go, and Sherlock turned away immediately, studying a blank piece of paper on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade grabbed his own subdued (" _Please give me a little snog_ ," it sometimes said.) beige raincoat.

"No, I don't think this one is deserving of Sherlock's attention. Sorry, I have to run, Sherlock. See you later this week, perhaps."

In the police car on the way to the scene, he sent a short text:

 

_More data available, if needed.  
G_

************

Sherlock arrived at Lestrade's flat sooner than the DI had expected. After that half-kiss, he hoped Sherlock would make the next move, driven by lust or annoyance or outrage. It didn't really matter as long as he came over. It was almost midnight. Lestrade was lying in bed on top of the dark green duvet, in gray flannel pyjama bottoms and white t-shirt, waiting. He had showered, put on cologne, brushed his teeth. Had a whiskey, for courage.

Sherlock picked the lock easily and bounded into the living room, calling out for Lestrade.

He was talking rapid-fire, and not making a lot of sense. Lestrade stood quietly in the doorway to the bedroom, arms folded, watching Sherlock pace the length of his sitting room, looking at his elegant hands flying around as he talked.

"This is becoming a tedious distraction, Lestrade. I don't know what you want. Or what you _think_ you want from me. There is a great deal of conflicting information to be parsed. I can't . . . no, I _refuse to_   . . . I find this whole area to be not worthy of my attention, yet you are insisting . . ."

"I'm not insisting on anything, Sherlock. When did you hear me make any demands?"

"Of course you are! You're just constantly, _constantly_ . . . You are touching and breathing all over me . . . And looking at me. And manhandling my clothing . . . And your stupid _hair_ and _eyes_ , and your _maddening voice_ , always, always . . ."

"Listen, Sherlock. I'm not making any demands. I'm just making a simple offer. And did I mention it won't be boring?"

"Well, I don't want your offer! I'm rejecting it! I don't even know what the offer is. I don't know what you imagine I'm supposed to do. You want me to run into your arms? _Ridiculous_. And then what? It's all so pointless. You're just trying to get me to do something or say something, aren't you? What, kiss you, like some adolescent? Or, do God knows what with your . . . your penis?"

Lestrade bit his lip quickly, so he wouldn't laugh in the idiot's face. Didn't want to risk hurting Sherlock's feelings, which seemed so raw right now. _God yes,_ he thought, _please do something with my penis_. Out loud, he said quietly, matter-of-factly, "Let's not think about that now. I'll text you a list of options later--with illustrations."

He walked over to Sherlock, who was now standing still brow furrowed, deep in thought, fists in his coat pockets. Lestrade cupped both hands around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down for a long, demanding kiss. _Enough playing around_ , he thought, as his fingers wove into the hair at the back of Sherlock's head. _It's time_.

Sherlock responded hungrily, pressing his mouth roughly against Lestrade's. Parting his lips, Sherlock tried awkwardly  to copy the langourous explorations of Lestrade's tongue, then tried to mimic the movement of Lestrade's hands as they stroked his face, the tender bites at his mouth. Sherlock pulled Lestrade painfully tight against him for a  
moment. Lestrade swayed dizzily when he felt the racing heartbeat next to his own and the power of Sherlock's long arms wrapped around him.

The DI carefully untangled himself, covering Sherlock's cheeks with kisses,  whispering, ‚"You have too many clothes on." He stripped off Sherlock's coat. Immediately after, off came the scarf and the aubergine shirt.

"So--so do-- you," Sherlock's voice was thick and halting.

Sherlock grabbed the hem of Lestrade's t-shirt and pulled it up and off, tossing it across the room,with a nervous laugh. Then came a quick intake of breath as Sherlock touched Lestrade's naked chest for the first time, running the tips of his fingers through dark wisps of hair. The two men pressed themselves tightly together again and kneaded backs and shoulders; tongues and teeth found small new spaces to conquer--chins, jaws, nipples. Lestrade's hands found the perfect resting place in the shallow dip at the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock buried his face in the cleft of Lestrade's collarbone, inhaling shakily. Then he was gasping and ahhing at every new sensation, and questioning as his hands pinched and caressed and pulled at Lestrade's flesh: "Is this what you want? Again? More?"

Lestrade found being in the position of authority--the instructor--to be well, very stimulating.

When a delirious feeling overtook him again, Lestrade decided it was time to get horizontal and pulled Sherlock into the bedroom.

In seconds, both were naked, stretched out on the bed, and Lestrade put his whole mind to finding anything that would heighten Sherlock's arousal and pleasure. The DI's short fingernails scratched and flicked. His tongue traced the curve just under Sherlock's rib cage, the backs of his knees. Sherlock squeezed Lestrade's muscular arms and stroked his hair in affirmation. "Yes. Do that again," he whispered. Lestrade licked and nibbled Sherlock's ears, pulling out deep, gravelly moans and a slight arch in Sherlock's back.

The genius flinched whenever Lestrade ventured near Sherlock's eyes, possibly because he insisted on keeping them wide open, even when Lestrade tried to kiss them closed.

So Lestrade moved lower, kissing his way from Sherlock's slim neck down his almost hairless torso, lightly grazing his very erect cock, and then down both of his legs, before putting a toe in his mouth to see what reaction that might elicit.

 _Not good_. He got a swift kick in the head because Sherlock, he discovered, was ticklish, and let out a shriek before pulling his feet away violently.

"Sorry, so sorry," Sherlock gasped, before scrambling down to the foot of the bed where Lestrade was rubbing his damaged forehead. Sherlock clumsily pushed Lestrade onto his back and repeated some of the tender, teasing moves he had just learned, sending Lestrade into fits of raspy groans of encouragement. "Yes, yes. That's it. Yes, love."

 _Damn._ As soon as he'd said it, he felt embarrassed and vulnerable‚and hoped Sherlock hadn't really heard, wrapped up as he was now, in stroking Lestrade's thighs and testicles with those long violinist's fingers.

Sherlock climbed on top of Lestrade, his whole sinewy body pressing down, trying to find a position with as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. They kissed with a new urgency, still exploring new surprises, new textures, new responses. Lestrade felt his lips now swollen and red from the friction of tender skin against stubble, and it was a heavenly, intoxicating feeling.

Sherlock was rubbing his cock rhythmically against Lestrade's‚ and that too was heavenly, as they both moved nearer and nearer to orgasm. Then Sherlock put his lips to Lestrade's ear and said fiercely--almost angrily-- words Lestrade was sure it pained him to say, "I don't know what to do now. Show me. Please, show me."

Lestrade smiled and bit his lower lip, savoring the feeling of conquest and control. He gracefully (Yes, he could still be graceful when he wanted to be, dammit.) flipped Sherlock onto his back, gave him one last, deep, commanding kiss, and crept down to finish him off.

"What are you doing? Are you going away?" There was tone of alarm in Sherlock's voice.

Lestrade looked up at him and realized Sherlock had grabbed hold of his hand, and was trying to pull his body back on top.

"No worries," he teased. "You've heard of a blow job?"

Sherlock's stare was blank, confused.

"Oral sex, fellatio?"

Sherlock still looked puzzled, then suddenly blushed when he retrieved the meaning from an old backup disc beside his hard drive, categorized just for a few more minutes as "Irrelevant Information."

Lestrade licked Sherlock's penis playfully, but saw him clench his fists and felt him hold his breath. "Relax, Sherlock. I'm going to make you very happy. Remember how fantastically helpful a little knowledge of the solar system turned out to be? You'll find this is even more useful."

He let Sherlock keep holding his left hand as he took as much his long pink cock into his mouth as he could manage and squeezed his right hand around the rest. He played around the tip with his tongue at first, tasting and spreading the pre-come along the shaft. He hummed as he tightened his lips, opened his throat to take him deeper, and began to moan. When Sherlock's  gasps clearly indicated he needed to be put out of his exquisite misery, Lestrade pulled and sucked him to what seemed to be--from all available evidence--a spectacular climax.

"Oh, oh--oh my God!" Sherlock came in a crash and an aftershock that seemed to take him by surprise. Without warning, he sat bolt upright, hands clutching at Lestrade's soft silver hair.

Lestrade pushed Sherlock back down onto the dark pillows, licked his own lips, and began gently kissing his way back up the damp, hot, pink torso. A little drunk on Sherlock's scent and taste, he paused to enjoy the feel of his chest on his cheek. Lestrade now feared doing anything that might snap Sherlock out of his post-come bliss and turn him back into his normal disagreeable, mocking self.

Still, there was one more matter to take care of. Lestrade wondered whether he might tactfully suggest that Sherlock help relieve the monstrous hard-on Lestrade had had since . . . when had he started playing this flirting game? A hundred years ago, it seemed.

Sherlock's eyes were finally closed, his breathing still coming in irregular gasps, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over his pink lips. Lestrade kissed him tenderly again, thinking, _Don't forget it's me in this bed with you, idiot_. "Look at me, Sherlock," he said aloud, as he ran his hands over the beautiful high cheekbones.

Sherlock opened his eyes and put his lips to Lestrade's ear. "Now I'll try to do the same for you, Greg?"

The sound of his name coming from Sherlock's mouth for the first time--and in that breathy baritone--set all the hairs on Lestrade's arms and legs at attention. _Am I really shivering now,_ he wondered. _Just because Sherlock fucking Holmes said my name? Dammit. That is pathetic._

He could feel his cock throbbing and thought he might come right then and there with no more ceremony or encouragement‚ but managed to hold back with his usual tactic of reciting things he had memorized in school. He was now failing to remember more than three words from the Henry V's Agincourt speech.

As many times (surely hundreds, he thought) as he had fantasized about Sherlock's mouth around his dick, right now Lestrade actually couldnt bear the thought of letting those lips stray from his face. The feel of warm, sweet, honey-scented breath . . . _where the hell did that come from?_ The teeth that were now scraping across his collar bone, chewing at his earlobe and marking his neck. _God, this is really paradise_. . . DI Lestrade was--well, he would have to say he was purring. A really macho purr, he assured himself.

No, no, think about the band of brothers. Men charging into battle, swords drawn-- _oh dear, that's actually not going to help,_ he realized, and stopped immediately.

He took Sherlock's hand and placed it firmly on his now almost bursting cock; purple and slick with Sherlock's sweat and his own pre-come. He showed Sherlock how to slide his hand up and down--twisting, pumping, varying the pressure and speed, then keeping it steady and fast, fast, faster. Sherlock seemed to know something about this. Sherlock raised himself up on one elbow, to get some leverage, and allowed his tongue to wander over Lestrade's chest and suck at one nipple while he rhythmically pulled, bringing Lestrade to the quivering edge of orgasm. Then, inexplicably, he let go.

Lestrade, eyes shut, back arching, gasped: "What in God's name are you doing? Are you trying to kill me? Please, Sherlock!"

He opened one eye in exasperation, and saw that blasted Holmes crocodile smile.

"Just pay-back, Lestrade. You've been torturing me mercilessly for weeks, you bastard."

Still smiling, Sherlock threw his leg over Lestrade and straddled his thighs, holding Lestrade's full, heavy cock tight in both hands now, pumping hard and fast, until Lestrade came in a half dozen convulsive shudders that felt as if they might never stop. He had no idea whether he was whispering or screaming Sherlock's name.

*******

Vaguely aware that he was still naked, Lestrade awoke, looked at the clock, and saw that he must have slept at least 8 hours, a record for him, and that it was almost 10 a.m. and he was late for his shift. _Shit._

He looked at the pewter winter sky through a gap in the curtains, and saw a few tiny snowflakes hitting the window. He turned to his right and saw that Sherlock's long naked form was sprawled half on, half off the bed, a foot and one arm draped over Lestrade possessively.

 _Now what?_ Lestrade wondered. He stroked the dark curls and offered a tentative brush of his lips against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock turned to catch Lestrade's mouth in a kiss that included a playful bite. Sherlock pulled Lestrade close for a moment, pressing their foreheads together.

Jesus, that seemed almost affectionate. _Maybe this is going to last more than one night_ , thought Lestrade, with a sense of relief and joy washing over him.

He felt his pulse quicken and the start of a twitching fresh erection when Sherlock began lightly tracing a design with his fingers from Lestrade's shoulder blades down to his bum. He was smiling--that awful, dangerous smile again, though. That couldn't be good.

Before he could investigate further, there was a knock at the door.

He grabbed a t-shirt and rumpled trousers from the chair and jumped up to answer it. Glad to have a moment to gather his thoughts before attempting conversation about the previous night.

A delivery boy presented a box of danish, croissants, and two steaming coffees. Lestrade reached in his pocket for a tip and closed the door.

"Do I smell coffee? Bring it in here immediately."

"Did you ring for this? I didn't hear you on the phone?"

"No, I texted John and asked what he'd recommend for the morning after sexual relations. He said he'd send something over. Are those cinnamon danish I smell? Excellent."

"Wha . . . You texted _John_ and told him . . .? _Jesus, Sherlock_."

"Well, obviously. I knew he'd be concerned that I hadn't come home and didn't want him sending your team out in search of us. I texted Donovan and your office assistant as well. Told them you'd be late today on account of needing some recovery time after an extended bit of shagging. Included a photo. Nothing obscene, of course. Just your pretty face. Asleep. Look at that."

He showed Lestrade the photo he'd taken with his phone. Lestrade sleeping--hair askew, a touch of drool on the pillow. "You're quite handsome there."

 _Godammit._ Lestrade didn't know what to say. He felt the all too familiar anger and helplessness that he often still felt around Sherlock. Was he having a go now, winding him up? Had the whole episode been a prank in which Sherlock had turned the tables on him just to embarrass him in front of his colleagues?

Greg frowned and prepared for the worst. But there was Sherlock, touching the image on his phone, looking at it without, Lestrade thought, a smirk. He was looking at it with--okay, obviously not love--this was still Sherlock after all. _Don't be completely daft_. _He certainly isn't looking at you lovingly,_ Greg told himself. _Get that right out your head, Detective Inspector._

Lestrade ran his hand through his hair and stood in the middle of his bedroom, immobile, cardboard box of coffee cups and baked goods in hand. If Sherlock was messing with him, then should he, Lestrade, pretend it was all a joke, too? He felt the upper hand he had enjoyed for a few glorious weeks disappearing, and he was disappointed that he hadn't been able to maintain it longer. He hadn't thought through the morning after. Some bad planning, that.

He walked to the bed, trying not to look as unsure of himself as he felt. Sherlock had opened Lestrade's laptop and was tapping away.

Oh no, he wasn't posting some lurid description on his web site, was he? Turning it into an experiment or puzzle of some sort? Perhaps he'd have the decency to black out Lestrade's name? Lestrade suddenly felt shaky on his feet. He did not want to be an experiment. He put the coffee and pastries on the bedside table.

Sherlock scooted over and patted the bed. He stretched out his hand without looking up from the laptop.

"Coffee."

Lestrade obeyed. He sat down and put the cup in Sherlock's hand.

"Mmmm. Hot. Needs milk. You can get me some in a minute." Sherlock swiveled the laptop so Lestrade could see the screen.

Lestrade gasped involuntarily as he saw an array of pornographic photos and erotic drawings.

"I've created a file here with 43 sexual positions and/or practices that I think we should try. A few each day--whatever we can manage--until we complete them all satisfactorily." Sherlock gave Lestrade a look as if to clarify that he, Sherlock, was in charge of this scientific project, and would define _satisfactorily._ "Obviously, we'll begin without toys and tools, and then move on . . ."

 _Oh, come on_ , thought Lestrade, kicking Sherlock's leg to register his complaint. As if Lestrade hadn't rocked Sherlock's bloody world to the nth degree last night! Where did he get off with that bossy, superior attitude? He'd still be a clueless virgin, if not for Lestrade, after all. The DI started to pick a fight, but Sherlock would not be dissuaded from completing his presentation, and held up his hand to demand silence.

"As you can see, I have illustrations, some videos, et cetera. Here (he tabbed into a spreadsheet) "I've created a template for what I call our _lab reports_ , to record our preferences, experiences‚--any data that are useful to gather. Now, of course, I plan to concoct my own lubricant back in the kitchen at Baker Street, but you may tell me if you have a preference for some inferior version from the chemist."

Lestrade looked up at the ceiling, trying to get the spreadsheet, where he had seen a column labeled: WOOL FETISH/SHEEP? out of his head.

Sherlock put his hand on Lestrade's chin and turned it toward him. "Lestrade! Pay attention. You are not going to force me to repeat myself, are you?"

Then Sherlock gave him a kiss. Just a light flick of the tongue, but Lestrade could taste and smell the coffee. _Very nice._

"And do eat something. You look pale, and you'll need your strength and wits about you shortly. You must try to keep up, Greg. I know I've not got the experience you have, but I am determined to get up to speed very quickly. I'll surpass you by Tuesday."

Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows. He briefly considered berating Sherlock for having the gall to reveal their intimate encounters to John and Sally. He could hear the jeers at the office now. It would be unbearable.

 _And oh, God in Heaven, homemade lube?_ He had seen some of the things Sherlock produced in that kitchen. He winced. It would probably make his cock fall off.

But then Sherlock put his head on Lestrade's shoulder, sipping at the coffee and playing happily with his spreadsheet. Could they possibly be cuddling? Very unlikely. How long had it been since Lestrade had had this feeling of contentment? Given the now obvious dangers of having Sherlock Holmes as a boyfriend, why was he so happy? He should be terrified, he told himself, as he burrowed his face into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock just kept prattling on about his theories of male anatomy and the chemistry of lubricants. _Yes, terrified._

But Lestrade wasn't really listening anymore. He just stroked Sherlock's chest and let him talk. He had certainly lost control of this relationship quickly. But for now, that felt just fine.

 


End file.
